


Defying Destiny

by Villain_Complex (Random_Fandom_writer)



Series: Merlin Rewritten: God AU [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bittersweet, God!Merlin, Good Mordred (Merlin), Hero Worship, I just realized Gwen's not here, Immortal Merlin (Merlin), Leon isn't really either, M/M, Merlin has GOD status and none of y’all can stop me, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), POV Switches, Powerful Merlin (Merlin), Temporary Character Death, man it's 3 in the morning give me a break, or Elyan, or percival, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Fandom_writer/pseuds/Villain_Complex
Summary: Arthur feels sick at the sight, because there is just so much, so much blood for one little body. A body that once smiled, and joked, and cooked, and cleaned. Arthur never imagined this. Not ever, not Him. Merlin isn't supposed to look so. Lifeless.Merlin wasn't supposed to have magic either.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Mordred (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Rewritten: God AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677964
Comments: 10
Kudos: 376
Collections: Fics to Live For (In BrytteM's Opinion)





	Defying Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> First work for this fandom, forgive me if the characterization is off.
> 
> Also, for reference, Mordred is 20, Merlin is 26. According to the timeline Mordred first appeared in Camelot at age 11, and came back 9 years later. Merlin is 17. Hence, ages 20 and 26. 
> 
> I'm not stating that the Merdred in this fic is healthy per say. Mordred practically worships Merlin (or Emrys), which isn't stable ground for a relationship, but hey. It's just a fan fiction.

It took a total of two minutes for everything Merlin had worked for to crumble. Two minutes in the great scheme of ten years. Ten years of sacrifice, and secrets, and _lies,_ all unveiled the moment He lifted His finger to light the fire, when the flint and steel failed to behave.

Arthur wasn't supposed to see. He was supposed to be sleeping, but the King is apparently wide awake now, and so is Merlin, all too aware of the sharp tip of a blade pinned to His chest.

"What was that?" 

Arthur already knows what it was.

"My lord," He whispers. It's out of character, but Merlin thinks it's smart to show the barest amount of respect to the man who is about thirty seconds from killing Him. "I can explain," and He knows He won't get the chance when the sword is plunged deep into His chest.

Thus ends the mighty Emrys. Taken down by the very thing He brought into creation, and wielded by whom He gifted it to. Excalibur; forged with dragons breath, and Arthur. The Once And Future King. His other half. Two sides of the same coin.

Merlin recalls Kilgharrah's words _(“a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole”),_ and at the moment, with Arthurs eyes showing nothing but cold, He cannot help but doubt the old dragons words. For a moment He forgets Himself, forgets about Excalibur buried between His ribcage, and looks into the others eyes. His attacker has been careful to portray nothing in his gaze, but the servant knows better. He knows what His King is feeling.

Betrayal.

He sees now what His lies have done. They've broken him. They've broken Arthur. Arthur, who once trusted Merlin, trusted Him with his life, and it's with that, that the King decides he will never trust again.

It is then when the sword is yanked from His body, leaving nothing more than a choked gasp on His lips at the parting of steel from skin. Merlin crumbles to His knees. It's a wonder He managed to stay upright for so long. Maybe it was the shock. He finds Himself missing it sorely as it's replaced with vicious pain.

And even as His arms give way, the pressure of holding His own body becoming too much to bare, when the frosty grass is tarnished with warm, sticky blood, nothing could compare to the pain the sorcerer felt as He watched the other mount his horse, and disappear into the woodland without a word.

The fire withers away, as Merlin does too.

* * *

Mordred is in his chambers, already having retired for the night, when it happens. The knight can practically feel the life draining from the earth.

_E_ _mrys._ Or rather, the sudden lack of Him.

Mordred's body feels heavy. His limbs are weighed _downdowndown,_ but his mind, his magic is not. It's floating above him. Lingering, reaching out, grasping for something, anything, any trace of Emrys in the air, only to come back with nothing. It's unsettling at the least, and earth shattering at the most, because Emrys' magic simply doesn't _go away_. Emrys is everywhere, mixing in with age ridden tapestries to bring vibrancy to the textile. It is burrowed in the soil, providing nutrients to what otherwise would be barren land. It heals and caresses. Protects Camelot with ferocity that can come from no other, and for that Mordred devotes himself to Him.

The druid forces his body to move to the edge of the bed, and reaches out one last time.

_'Emrys.'_

_'Emrys, can you hear me?'_

A flicker. Barely there, but it's there nonetheless. He steels himself, pushing his magic to meet Emrys'. 

He sees Emrys, and he almost wishes he hadn't.

The power is gone from the servant, who's hunching in on Himself as a hand fruitlessly tries to stem the blood flow, the other shakily holding His weight.

And Mordred watches as his God falls to pieces.

***

When his mind returns to his body, all is quiet save for the beating of the druids heart. Burn. Burning. His throat is burning. He rolls onto the floor, keeling over just as his stomach clenches to expel its contents.

_Emrys is dead._

Nothing feels tangible anymore. His head hurts, his vision starts to blur, and- he might be dreaming. That's it. Mordred is dreaming.

_Emrys is dead._

He quietly casts a silencing spell over the room, and slowly, shakily makes his way over to his desk, using it to support his trembling form.

And then slams his fingers in the drawer.

Anything to convince himself he's awake.

As his fingers break, the windows do as well.

He cries out, tears blossoming in his eyes. The druid limply lifts his bloodied hand, another wave of nausea washing over him as he smells the coppery scent. He laughs hysterically, spitting profanities, and sinks back to the floor.

***

That is how Mordred's manservant finds him at day break. Trembling, tear streaked, and bloody, surrounded by broken glass. He waves the servant away, and tells him to inform King Arthur that he will not be attending training today.

His death will not go unavenged. Mordred swears on it.

* * *

Arthur returns from the hunt alone.

He stands in front of his council, and announces that Morgana's people had attacked them in the night. It's a nice story, well thought out, if not a bit rehearsed, though he hardly thinks anyone notices. They're all wrapped up in agitation at the thought of yet another magic attack against their King to pay attention to the way he stutters on the word _Morgana._

He looks to his knights (Mordred isn't amongst them Arthur notes, probably having to do with some injury. He'll have to remember to check up on him) who are all eerily silent. Or most of them are, save Gwaine who growls and storms from the room as a stern Arthur calls for him to _'get back here, you've not been dismissed.'_

***

Arthur made it out alive. Merlin did not.

_Arthur made it out alive. Merlin did not,_ is what he tells himself when he catches a glimpse of black, tousled hair and high cheekbones out of the corner of his eye, as Sir Geraint reports something about a bandit camp along the eastern border. 

_Arthur made it out alive. Merlin did not,_ yet as his eyes wander to the back of the room, he's met with the eyes of his servant. His bloodied, battered servant.

He doesn't know what stops him from shouting out in surprise. Maybe it's magic, maybe it's shock, but as he drinks His wretched state, all he can do is stare.

Merlin looks haunted. Each of His hands are blood stained- no, not blood stained. The gore coating Him looks far from dried. It's wet and thick, pooling onto the once pristine castle floors. Arthur feels sick at the sight, because there is _just so much_ , so much blood for one little body. A body that once smiled, and joked, and cooked, and cleaned. Arthur never imagined this. Not ever, not Him. Merlin isn't supposed to look so. Lifeless. 

Merlin wasn't supposed to have magic either.

He looks sad as well. Arthur can just make out the slight shivers that rack His frame, and the tear tracks that adorn His (far too pale) cheeks. Yet the power emanating from a figure so small is frightening. How a man (is that what He is?) could manage to expel such omnipotence while looking so very _dead_ is beyond him. It might have to do with the eyes. Those searing, golden eyes. Those sad, _angry_ golden eyes. It doesn't take long to deduce whom it's directed at.

And when a long, boney arm stretches out to point at him, Arthur stops breathing.

"Look at what you've done," is the last thing he hears before losing consciousness.

***

When he comes to, Gaius is mixing a most likely foul concoction beside him. The old man writes it up to exhaustion and left over shock from the. _Events_ of the hunt. Arthur almost brings up his vision of Merlin, but stops at the last second. He best not bother Gaius with it. After all, Arthur _is_ quite exhausted, and whatever he saw could have easily been a nightmare brought to life while unconscious.

He looks tired. The kind of tired that homes in your bones, giving you no escape. For a moment Arthur wonders if the physician was at all involved in Merlin's. Treasonous activities, but quickly dismisses the thought, whether it holds truth or not. He doesn't think he could handle learning of yet another betrayal. Besides, it would be suspicious indeed to speak of considering circumstance.

Nobody can ever know.

* * *

The first fortnight without Emrys, It seems as if the very Earth mourns the loss.

It rains. Cold, and heavy with no sign of stopping. It floods the square, drowns the crops, and sends the animals for cover where no one can find them. Mordred nearly rips his hair out in frustration when the hunt comes back to Camelot, soaked to the core, yet still without as much as a rabbit.

He runs. Runs out of the kingdom and into the forest, as fast as his legs can carry him until he stumbles into a clearing and falls to his knees.

He begs. Begs to the sky, begs to Emrys (because he knows He could never say no to Mordred) to stop. Put an end to this. He begs until his voice goes hoarse and his eyes are as wet with his tears as they are with the rain.

The sun shines the next day. It's not particularly bright, and the clouds obstruct most of the light, but it is something. The game returns to the forest, the crops bud once more, and life goes on. 

***

The moment Mordred feels Emrys' magic return, it's as if the life is sucked back into him. The druid thinks he could collapse with relief, and then proceeds to actually collapse as it hits him full force. 

It doesn't feel the same.

Emrys' magic has always been a source of comfort. With soft caresses, and whispers of protection that serve to move Mordred to tears at the sheer warmth and _longing_ it evokes. Though now it is hardly gentle. It's seething. Agitated in such a foreign way, it has Mordred suffocating in the sickness that permeates the air.

He's desperate to sooth his Lord, longs to hold Him now more than ever. It's almost torturous, being able to feel Him, but not see. To have his lover so close to him, yet so inexplicably out of reach. Mordred calls to Him desperately, verging on hysterical. He wants to fix it, he _needs_ to fix it. _'Who did this to you? Merlin, please.'_

In the end, the druid receives no answer. He doesn't even pretend to mask his frustrated tears.

He settles for the memories, though it's not like he has any other choice when Merlin refuses to grant him acknowledgment. He settles for the memories, that sooth as much as they burn.

* * *

It is not the last Arthur sees of Him.

He's dreaming, a strangely domestic dream. Merlin is cleaning his armour, Arthur berating Him to _'speed up I have training in an hour,'_ when it happens.

The armour clatters to the floor. "Shut up, just- shut up." Tears shine in His eyes. "I'm sorry ok? I'm sorry." It isn't about the armour anymore. "I'm only trying to protect you Arthur. I've only ever tried-" He's cut off when Arthur drives Excalibur straight through His heart.

What is he doing?

There is a change in the air, and Arthur knows it's magic, horrifyingly so. It feels angry, buzzing with betrayal. A betrayal far superior than any betrayal made upon Arthur.

For a moment, he simply waits. Waits for the magic to strike him down.

"Do it. You'll only be proving me right."

***

It's foolish. Emrys nearly laughs at the absurdity. As if He could harm His Once And Future King.

However, not even their connection can stem the pain of the blood His King had spilt. Merlin's blood, and in turn. Emrys' blood. So Emrys lashes out. Not physically. No, the damage He is doing runs far deeper than any surface wound.

Emrys wants Arthur to hurt, hurt like He has hurt. He wants him to realize just _exactly what he has done._

He plagues his nights, turning his dreams sour as Arthur is forced to relive Merlin being mangled by his own hand.

On good nights, Merlin screams, sobs, begs for forgiveness.

On bad nights Merlin says nothing. He just stares. Those are the worst nights, the nights when Arthur wakes with a deep regret pooling heavy in his stomach that he does his best to ignore. He mustn't feel guilty. Merlin was a sorcerer, and sorcerers deserve to burn.

Magic has no place in Camelot.

* * *

No one comments on the Kings bruised under eyes. They get it.

***

Gwaine dreams of ale, and exquisite cheeses, and Merlin.

"Gwaine," He whispers. "I need you to promise me something," and the drunkard is unable to say no. Especially now, as he looks back into hollowed eyes, and bloodied lips.

"Anything for you my friend."

"Promise me. Promise me you'll stay in Camelot. No matter what happens."

A strange request indeed, though it's of little concern, because Merlin has asked for his word, and Merlin will get it.

***

Leon is next. Then Percival. Then Elyan.

Merlin tells them the same thing.

"Look after Arthur." It's not a question, more so a demand. 

They oblige.

* * *

Mordred can feel Emrys, and it's an excruciating feat when he manages not to call out to Him. He's desperate for answers, the answers only his God can give him.

"I can say nothing to you Mordred. The answers are there, if only you'd look." It's cryptic. Mordred is fairly certain he knows nothing of the sort. "I see the anger inside of you. Do not let it become of you."

" _I must._ Whoever hurt you will not get away with it-" he's cut off with a snap of the fingers, silencing the now sheepish druid.

_"And I have ensured they will not."_ Emrys eyes him warily. "You must not take matters into your own hands, my dear. Trust me when I say they are suffering in their own way. Trust me as I trust you."

It shocks Mordred like a slap to the face. Emrys has never once told him He trusts him, at least not aloud. It had always been an implied thing, that was more to be understood than heard. 

He would rather die than break that trust.

* * *

They're on the training field when Arthur goes frantic.

"Nonono not now, _I'm not asleep."_ He throws his sword away, far away out of reach lest he is forced to plunge it through Merlin, who's standing innocently by the weapons rack.

"My Lord?" Leon calls out. "Is everything alright?"

He moans, grabbing the knight by the shoulders and shoving him towards where the former servant is standing. "Tell me. Tell me you can see Him too."

"I see no one Sire," Leon replies shortly. Arthur barks a neurotic laugh in response, muttering a few choice words before starting to pace.

Nobody is training anymore, in favour of watching their King worriedly.

Mordred sees Him. Though he knows that is only because of his druidic nature.

The question is, why can _Arthur_ see Him?

_'The answers are there, if only you'd look.'_

It clicks.

* * *

Mordred keeps a close eye on Arthur from then on. He knows he must confront him soon, before he goes feral during training and _actually_ runs him through.

"I'm going to collect some firewood," Arthur says as they're setting up camp for the night after a hunt.

"I'll help."

***

They collect wood in silence. He can tell Arthur is eyeing him warily, though the druid doesn't know if that's the usual paranoia or if he suspects something.

"There's something that's been bothering me my Lord, I hope you don't find it out of turn for me to say."

"Whatever it is, spit it out Mordred."

"It's about Merlin, Sire." Out of the corner of his eye he sees him tense. "He came to me, in a dream, and said the most peculiar thing-"

"It was just a dream," he snaps, effectively cutting the younger off.

A pause. "Of course, yes. A dream. Though you would know all about _those_ wouldn't you _Sire?"_ He turns to Arthur with a vile glare, exchanging the firewood for his sword, and holding the pointed tip to his throat. "What did you do to Him? _I know_ it was you."

His eyes slip closed in defeat and the druid has to mask the surprise he's sure shows on his face. Arthur never admits defeat.

"Mordred please..."

"No." His glare turns into a sickening grin. "Does this bring back memories? Was it just like this, in these woods? Him, begging at your feet before you _killed him where he stood?"_

Neither of them register Gwaine, Elyan, Leon, and Percival's arrival.

"He had magic, I was... Protecting myself."

_"Liar._ Merlin would never have used His magic against you, _you know that."_ Percival jumps in, grabbing Mordred from behind and pulling him away from the King, careful of the sword he still wields.

Leon interrupts. "Mordred, calm down-"

"So you knew. You knew He had magic."

"Yes I knew, of course I knew He's- I"

"You what? _What?"_

_"I loved Him,"_ he shouts, and the world stills. The sword falls from his grip. "I loved Him _so much_ and. You _killed Him."_ The druids magic stirs dangerously underneath his skin as a lump forms in his throat. "He trusted you."

It's a long while before Arthur starts to reply.

"I know. I trusted Him too and _I'm sorry._ I'm so sorry Mordred, I didn't think." No, that's Merlin's job. He's the thinker, the voice of reason. The one who keeps Arthur level headed when need be. "I couldn't think."It comes out a choked whisper. "I'm sorry."

Mordred feels Him before he sees Him.

The presence is powerful, though no longer ill. The wrath that had previously contaminated His magic gone, and the taste of His fresh, clean aura nearly has him falling to his knees with the solace it provides, because _Merlin is alive, Emrys is back._

"Idiot." The new arrival flashes a crooked smile. "I see you've finally learned some manners."

"Merlin." Gwaine just about tackles the man, only to be stopped by a transparent hand.

Mordred's heart drops.

The sorcerer turns to Arthur. “You are forgiven. All you needed to do was ask.” 

He isn't actually alive is He?

It's with that, that his heart breaks, and so does his resolve.

"You're not actually here are you?" He says, drinking in His see through state. "You're still dead." Mordred's voice cracks on the last word.

Merlin sighs dejectedly. "Yeah. Yeah, love I'm still dead."

He lets the tears escape at the confirmation. It's what he was expecting, but he can't stop the feeling of dejection from setting in. "You're not supposed to die. Not when there is so much left undone."

He rushes forward, kneeling beside Mordred (since when was he on the ground?) and reaches out a hand to his. A shiver runs through him when their touch fails to meet. "Merlin may be dead, but Emrys lives on." He smiles, and god he forgot how badly he missed it. 

With a flash of gold, magic twirls from his faded form, reaching out to brush against Mordred's cheek. His eyes slip closed, content. He has always adored the feeling of His magic. So pure, and loving. Gentle and tranquil. The warmth disappears (Mordred finds himself already missing it sorely), before moving to Arthur, streams of gold coiling around the man before bursting exuberantly into the air. It settles on the knights last of all, prodding playfully and jubilantly, making sure to take extra care of Gwaine, who looks almost moved to tears.

It's like saying goodbye, in a foreign, bittersweet sort of way.

As Merlin's body fades, Mordred can't help but cry out, and attempt to latch onto the man. Somehow manage to tie him back down to the mortal realm. He will do anything, anything at all. Mordred will barter, bargain with the gods, hell, bargain with demons. He will sacrifice the lives of innocents, or master the art of Life and Death, if it means Merlin will live on. Call him selfish, call him naïve, but without Merlin, without _Emrys,_ Mordred has nothing. And what good is a man with nothing?

"Don't go," he pleads, though he knows it's a fruitless attempt.

"Mordred it's alright." He laughs sadly. "I'm Emrys don't you know?" It's a silent promise. A promise of return, because as long as magic exists, Emrys will live on. "This isn't the end. It is merely the start of something new."

And then he is gone.

Mordred lets out a pained wail, which is immediately soothed by a sudden onslaught of the all too familiar magic which lingers in the air. It sparks and flies, before twirling and twisting until it finally seeps into the earth to be reclaimed by nature.

He is stunned by the sudden lack of Emrys. His magic no longer seems as prominent as it once was, but Mordred thinks that is for good reason. He gets a funny feeling that Camelot doesn't really need Emrys anymore.

* * *

When Mordred heard of the great Emrys, and all He was foretold to do, he never believed it to be like this. He'd assumed the man Himself would be standing next to the Once And Future King, declaring together that the magic ban on Camelot has been lifted. Not to say he isn't happy with the progress. He's _ecstatic._

He just wishes Merlin were here to see it. They all do. He can tell by the faces that they've silently agreed He should have been here for this.

Despite the many months that have passed, Arthur has yet to have been forgiven by all. Gwaine almost revokes himself of his title, spitting how he'd rather live as a bandit than serve under a cruel tyrant. They're harsh words, ones meant for Uther rather than his son, though he never apologizes. At least not out loud. They know how prideful the knight can be, and the fact that he stays is apology enough. It's not a well kept secret that it's only because of Merlin's wishes he stays in Camelot.

Mordred finds he can't forgive his King just yet. He fears by holding onto the resentment, he's disappointing Merlin somehow. After all, it was Him who was the first to accept Arthurs tearful apology.

_'I see the anger inside of you. Do not let it become of you.'_

Still, he allows it to blacken his heart. Just a little bit, barely noticeable, but there is a tense air between the once friendly pair.

* * *

As time passes, Arthurs darkened under eyes fade little by little, and Mordred-

Mordred is but a shell.

He trains. He trains a lot, both with a sword- and thanks to the newly lifted ban- his magic (though those things are more to fill the time rather than an actual desire to learn). Arthur pretends not to be vastly uncomfortable with the notion that he had a druid for a knight for the better part of a year, though Gwaine is rather excited by it all. ' _Think about it. A magic wielding knight. We'll be the strongest army in the five kingdoms.'_ He doesn't have the heart to tell him that one of him isn't really going to do much, and that the other kingdoms have been utilizing magic in combat for years.

Sometimes Mordred prays. On bad days. It's less of praying, and more of friendly one sided conversations. He longs to hear Emrys reply, to have Him spit back some playful banter- usually about the " _royal prat"_ \- that never fails to make Mordred laugh and berate Him for disrespecting their King, and then laugh some more at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

Most importantly he doesn't forget Emrys' promise to return.

Until then, he will wait.

* * *

It's been several months since the magic ban was lifted when Merlin returns.

Mordred, once again, feels Him before he sees Him. Though it is quite unfortunate timing. As soon as he feels the presence, all he can think about is _Merlinmerlinmerlin_ , which is not ideal in the midst of a training session. Once he lets himself be distracted, his sparring partner clips him in the shoulder with a mace. He stumbles, just barely managing to catch himself, but he doesn't care. He only cares for one thing.

"Mordred. Get your head out of the clouds. Where'd you go mate?"

He smiles, wide and breathlessly. "Merlin." Some of the knights still at the mention of His name. "He's back. In Camelot."

Arthur frowns. "Mordred, He's dead, remember?"

"Don't be daft, he's-"

"Now Mordred, is that any way to speak to your King?" A snarky voice sounds from behind him, and judging by how white the knights faces have gotten, he can guess who it is.

_"Merlin."_ He spins around to be met with his- thankfully corporeal- lover. He lunges forward, uncaring of the watchful eyes and picks Him up by the waist, spinning them both around in dizzying circles.

"I can hardly see why you're so surprised, I told you I'd come back."

A small noise sounds from behind them. Arthur steps forward.

"Merlin."

"Arthur."

"Mordred has been telling me of your. Abilities." A tense nod of confirmation. "And I want you to know that you're accepted. In Camelot. The magic ban has been lifted. I believe I have you to thank for that?"

There's a beat of silence in which Mordred thinks Merlin begins to tear up, before he ultimately ruins the moment. _"Wow,_ Arthur _both_ apologizing _and_ thanking me so soon? Are you well my Lord?" 

"No, I do believe I'm quite sick in the head to have put up with you all these years."

"Oh, I don't doubt that much Sire."

* * *

Merlin and Mordred look out on the kingdom from above.

"You really trusted me? When I said I would bring magic back to Camelot."

"Well you did it didn't you?"

"Yes, I suppose I did. You helped."

Mordred groans. "My Lord, I am quite certain I did nothing of the sort. It's time you learned to take credit when it's due."

"You did more than you think you did." His tone takes on a much more serious note. "You forgave. Forgave me, forgave Arthur- at least enough not to kill him. And for that I am grateful."

Mordred looks down, almost ashamed. "I don't think I should be thanked for _not_ killing your King."

"You avoided your destiny, and that is a feat I have seen no other accomplish. For that you are strong." The warlock grabs Mordred by the hips, drawing him in close to his body. "Stronger than I'll ever be."

When they kiss, static fills the air. Fills his ears, and lungs. It is hungry, and desperate, and _everything_ all at once. Their magic intertwines as do they, connecting in a way neither of them knew they needed so greatly.

The Golden Age is shaping out to be quite glorious indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry if this is a mess, it is like, 3:30 right now. I am tired and just wanna post this. This is un beta'd so forgive me for any mistakes. Feel free to point them out to me if you notice any.
> 
> Almost thinking of writing an alternate ending. One where things do not go as well. What do y'all think of that?


End file.
